


Too Cool

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Asriel is a dork, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Over Idolization, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Reader is Asriel, Soft Chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: They're always laughing at you and calling you silly names. Because you're silly.
Well, maybe you don't want to be silly! Maybe you want to be cool, like them! You can do that. You just have to prove it to them.





	

                What does Chara find cool?

You repeat the question in your head again and again, approaching it from every angle, granting it every ounce of focus you have.

You _should_ be focusing on your drawing. You want to get really good at it one day, maybe start painting. You personally think the idea of being an artist or a painter or something is pretty darn cool. Maybe one day, you’ll make a nice portrait of Chara, and finally have a picture where they aren’t shying away from the camera. You think that sounds awesome, but Chara doesn’t really care about drawing. They’re always happy to doodle an evening away if you ask them to join you, but they’d never start doing it on their own. It’s one of those things they do only to humor you.

You look at what you have so far and give a muted frown. You think that the _things_ you draw are pretty gosh darn cool, too. Some of them you’re even afraid to show to Mom, in case she thinks it’s too violent. But at best, Chara is unmoved by what you draw, and at worst they’re laughing their butt off.

(The Hyperdeath Incident, as it has come to be known, will haunt you until the day you die and then for an eternity after it.)

Even when you draw something _for_ _them_ , you usually don’t get more than a small, pleased smile. It’s one of their really nice smiles that you think lights the whole room up because it’s genuine and nice, but they’re so unenthusiastic about it.

Your frown grows and tugs on your cheeks as you tap one of your best pencil crayons against the page, spattering Chara’s Royal Battle Armor with tiny red pin-headed dots. You’re about to panic when you see what you’ve done, but then you realize you can pass it off as blood when you show it to them. They’d appreciate being depicted as a greatsword toting, iron-clad, blood-drenched war-machine, even though they wouldn’t think it was cool. You sigh as you add another set of malevolent spikes to their helmet.

“You appear to be thinking rather hard over there,” they say, and your train of thought grinds to a halt as you grant them your full attention. “Do try not to hurt yourself,” they warn as they continue to focus on their own drawing of yet another golden flower.

“I won’t!” you assure, and they snicker. You don’t know what was funny, but your nose scrunches up in irritation anyway.

You know what Chara _doesn’t_ think is cool, that you can say with certainty. They don’t think the way you talk is cool. They don’t think the way you act is cool. They don’t think your games are cool. They don’t think _you’re_ cool, not even in the slightest, and they make sure to let you know.

_Crybaby. Sap. Idiot. Dork. Silly-Billy._

And— it’s not as though they aren’t still your best friend. They still play with you, they still spend time with you, they still _like_ you, but… there are a lot of things they ‘like’. They like golden flowers. They like chocolate. They like Mom and Dad. They like knitting. They like reading. They like gardening. But that doesn’t mean they think any of those are cool. They can like something and still think it’s lame. _“I enjoy it ironically,”_ you remember them telling you once about a weird sort of picture book they wouldn’t stop complaining about, after you had asked them why they insisted on continuing to read it at all.

Do they enjoy _you_ ironically? Is that all you are to them? Just a stupid joke they can’t help but laugh at?

There has to be something you can do to prove yourself. You can be cool. You can hold their interest. You only have to prove it to them so they’ll take you seriously. Then, you’ll be even _better_ friends, because they’ll like you for one-hundred-percent real, and not just because they think you’re silly.

Cool. _Cool._ You run the word through your head over and over until it loses all meaning and falls apart into noise. What do they find cool?

Knives, but you don’t have one and you would never even consider taking theirs. _“I got it from someone very important to me_ ,” they once struggled to tell you, and although you thought they may have been lying, you vowed to pry no further.

They think magic is downright amazing, but they’ve grown used to all the stuff you can do. _‘The magic of it has worn off’_ is probably how they’d put it, laughing a smug little laugh to themselves. Nowadays, they just use you to heat their tea and warm their hands when they’re cold, like you’re some kind of fluffy hotplate.

When Dad has to move furniture or some other big heavy thing around, they always look at him with starry, admiring eyes. But, well, you’re not gonna be that strong for a while yet. You frown; it’s not fair, you’re already _super_ strong! You’re stronger than _them_ , at least!

You sigh again, rougher now. They stop coloring, for a moment, and lean over to see what’s got you so exasperated. You’re pretty sure they saw what you’re drawing, because they get that smile that means you just did something funny but don’t know what it is.

Why does this have to be so difficult? Why do _they_ have to be so difficult? You think _they’re_ cool, can’t they return the favor, or even just cut you some slack?

 

You freeze, spying a new approach. Now what is it, exactly, that makes _them_ cool?

They’re smart, and they know tons of interesting stuff about all sorts of things. You could listen to them go on about the surface or a book that they’ve read or the stars or really anything at all for _hours._ You guess you could start paying more attention during Mom’s lessons, and start reading more, but they’re so much faster than you; whatever you manage to dig up they’ll already have discovered for themselves ages ago.

They’re funny, and always have something clever (albeit sometimes mean) to say to make you laugh. But they already think you’re funny, even if not in the same way, and just look where that got you.

They’re a human, but it’s not like you’re ever gonna be one. They also don’t think humans are very cool, from what you can gather.

But that’s not all, is it? There’s something _else_ about them, in the way they talk, in the way they _are_. They’re always so in control, so unfettered. They never let anyone push them around. They never act like they owe anyone an explanation.

Maybe, you think, all you’d have to do to prove yourself is act the way they do?

You give careful thought to the kind of thing they would do, right now. If they wanted to move on from drawing, they would simply stand and announce, “I’m done with this,” or something else all final and resolute sounding. You don’t really want to stop drawing, granted, but you suppose that Mom always tells you that the best time to start doing something important is the moment you think of it, and Chara sure does look up to Mom.

You sit up straight and take a deep breath. If you don’t pull this off, they’re definitely going to laugh at you. “Drawing time is over,” you assert, voice hushed yet bold.

They look up from their flower and stare you down with one eyebrow raised. “Oh…kay?” they say, obviously knocked off balance by your sudden display of coolness. “Well, what would you have us do instead, then?”

Crap. You didn’t plan ahead. Of course, you think; that’s something else they would do. Plan every conversation out in advance, account for all the variables. Be ready for anything.

“…I’m going to go for a walk,” you declare after a moment’s thought, confident that something weird and not fun like walking around New Home is exactly the sort of substitute they would suggest.

“Um,” they reply, fingers flushing red from squeezing their crayon. They really weren’t prepared for your little counter-attack, were they? You have to work to suppress a grin. “Very well. Have fun,” they say, looking back down to their drawing.

You frown, subtly. _Please come with me,_ you think at them, but don’t allow yourself to say. Chara would never, _ever_ ask you to do something with them. If they wanted you along, they would just do it, and expect you to follow. Asking your friend if they want to spend time together was _not_ cool. It was lamer than a broken leg. Squarer than a shape with four corners. Whacker than cut weeds.

As you turn to leave, you get an aching feeling in your chest. They’re not going to come with you, are they? You pout, but you manage keep yourself together; you understand that this isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take a while before they get used to your new attitude and start picking up on your new cues. Hopefully it isn’t _too_ long.

You take a short, lonesome walk around New Home, smiling to yourself and going over hypotheticals in your head. This is the best idea you’ve had in a _long_ time.

 

 

 

                The next morning, you ask your Mom for two slices of toast for breakfast. And not cinnamon toast, or something _stupid_ like that; plain white sliced bread with only a small dollop of butter on it. You don’t need sugar of flavor, you need sustenance, and toast does the job.

Chara, meanwhile, politely demands a bowl of chocolate-frosted Spider-Pops, and happily crunches away as you catch your Mom making a worried sort of face. She’s gonna make them brush their teeth again later, you can tell.

They periodically turn to eye you and your toast suspiciously. “Would you care for a black coffee with that?” they tease though a laugh. “What is it, lent?”

You pause and almost ask them what lent is, and if it’s some sort of human thing where everyone gets together to drink coffee and eat toast, but you decide against it, even if you’d actually like to hear. Not knowing things is decidedly uncool. “No,” you affirm, with stiff posture and steady tone. “I didn’t feel like any of that sugary crap. So I didn’t have any.” Your heart beats a little faster when you think about how awesome it would have been if instead of saying ‘crap’ you had… you know… said the ‘S’ word.

They tilt their head to the side. “Tummy ache?” they ask.

“I didn’t want any, alright? Is this an interrogation?” you force yourself to snap, only hesitating the slightest bit, and you aren’t sure if you should feel proud or guilty for how rude you just were.

Their stare darts away from yours and back down to their bowl, now half-empty. “Okay…”

You take a bite of your super boring toast and pout a sneaky pout to yourself (because pouting isn’t cool, but man would you have been happier with cereal) as Mom and Dad make their way to the table, taking their seats on either side. Dad came equipped with a bowl of Grain Flakes and a black coffee, whilst your Mom hopped on the plain toast bandwagon.

“Did you two have a pleasant sleep?” your mother asks kindly, looking between you and Chara.

“Yes,” they reply before you can think of something to say. “I had a cool dream last night.”

You perk up and listen intently, eager for further leads. “Would you like to share it with us, Chara?” she prompts, encouraging them to continue, but only if they want to. She understands almost as well as you do that their dreams aren’t always fun to hear about.

To your relief, they nod. “I dreamt that Asriel and I went to go play outside, but the floor collapsed from underneath us as soon as we left the house. We ended up falling into a massive undiscovered part of the underground that nobody had ever been to, and we had to explore it all by ourselves. It was really dark, and we were lost for hours, but we kept going anyway, and found our way out.”

Your Dad chuckles. “It sounds as though you could have saved a whole lot of time by waiting for someone to lower a rope down after you,” he points out.

Chara simply retorts, “But where’s the fun in that?” earning another laugh.

“What about you, Asriel? Did you sleep well?” Mom asks you, smiling wide.

You shrug dismissively. “I guess, yeah.”

And there, you see it. That _look_ of hers. That slightest shift in her expression, the faintest crinkle of her nose, the dullest glint of her eyes. You know that look’s meaning better than anyone; she’s caught scent of something awry. You shoot her a small, bright smile, trying to ease her mind. You can’t have her blowing your cover, but man, you hope Chara didn’t see that. Your good smiles should need to be _earned_ , just like theirs, not simply handed out willy-nilly because it would make someone else feel better.

Mom’s look disappears so quietly that you almost miss it. “So what kind of trouble are you two going to be getting into, today?” she asks, as fondly as always.

_I wanted to go play in the garden and then bring Chara out to waterfall and then draw later and maybe even play pretend and—_

No. Slow down, there. Excitement isn’t cool. You can’t just dive right in, no matter how badly you want to. You gotta play it steady. So, instead, you shrug again, further honing your technique. Chara glances over to you, expectant, waiting for you to launch into a big, over-enthused list of every possible activity you can think of. But, tactfully, you say nothing.

The following silence is awkward, to say the least. Mom’s look comes back. Chara keeps staring at you, more desperate, now.

“I will have to head into town this morning, just to run some errands,” your Dad says, breaking the pause. “If you two would like, I’d be glad to bring you along.”

They nudge your foot under the table. “That sounds like fun,” they say.

“Okay,” you admit, still sounding bored. In reality, you think going out into the capital with Dad and Chara sounds like a pretty darn good day, and if you weren’t so cool, you would be quite excited about it.

 

You put a baggy coat on over your sweater. It’s been reasonably warm around New Home, lately, but you need pockets to put your hands in, and your sweater doesn’t have any. You regret that you don’t have sunglasses to match. Maybe you can ask Mom for a pair, tell her that Hotland is too bright for your eyes.

As soon as you’re through the door, Chara sidles up next to you and starts fumbling around to get a grip on your hand. Their face screws up when they realize it isn’t there as it usually is— today, it’s stuffed into your coat pocket, and it’s gonna stay there. They give you a quick glare, silently demanding to know what the heck it is that you think you’re doing. You shrug. _What_ , you think, but don’t have the nerve to say, _do you think I’m gonna hold your hand? Do I look like some kind of baby to you? Get real._

(You blink hard to force a few wayward droplets back into your eyes when you remember that you actually really like holding their hand. Being cool sure is taking its toll, isn’t it? The things you’re willing to do for them…)

They break their stare as the three of you set off for town, and you try to ignore that aching feeling again as they drift away from you and towards Dad. They spend the whole walk clinging to his cape. You don’t miss how they hold on just a little bit tighter whenever someone passes by. But it’s not your place as a newly cool guy to empathize, is it? That’s their own problem.

 

 

 

                That night, Mom reminds Chara that they have to sing the whole alphabet song before they’re done brushing their teeth. Not quite what you had in mind, but you still called it.

They’re very… polite, you suppose you could put it, as the two of you are getting ready for bed. They wait for their turn at the sink instead of cramming in next to you. They stand far out of your way. They don’t hit you with any pillows. They don’t play with your ears while you’re trying to get stuff done. It’s considerate of them to give you your space and not pester you all night, for once, but you get that feeling again when you notice how they don’t seem to want to get near you. You like them better when they’re a pain in the butt.

But, you think you know what they’re up to. They’re testing you. They can tell you’ve turned over a new leaf, of course; you don’t know why you ever thought they wouldn’t notice. They know _exactly_ what you’re doing, and now they’re seeing if you can stick to your guns. So they’ve been pulling away from you all day, to see if you can keep it up when they aren’t making it easy. Well, you’re no idiot. You can read them like an open book, nowadays. They do this kind of thing all the time, always using you like some guinea pig, trying to see how far they can take this or if you’ll believe that. They _love_ testing you, you’d have to assume, from how much they do it.

Bring it on, you think. You’re gonna ace whatever they throw at you. This isn’t just an act; this is _who you are_ now. You’re cool, and even though they don’t believe it yet, they will soon enough. You’ll prove it.

 

Not five minutes after the lights go off, you hear Chara slide out of bed, ruining all of Mom’s hard work tucking them in. You can’t hear them approach; you never can, not even with the squeaky floors. They have the tread of a ghost. But you know they’ll be upon you soon. If they’re getting out of bed, that means they have something to say and or do to you. You hope it’s not to show you another centipede they found because you’re pretty sure you’ll freak out again if it is.

You feel a light tug on your sleeve. “Azzy…” they start softly, and you allow yourself a big smile that they won’t see in the dark. “I lied this morning.”

 “About what?” you ask, although it comes out more like an accusation.

“My dream wasn’t nice, last night,” they tell you, and your smile vanishes. You know what that means. They must have been really brave, ‘cause they didn’t wake up screaming the way they usually do. You wish they had told you sooner…

You’re about to shuffle over and make room for them, but stop. Because… what if this is just another test? The _ultimate_ test. They know that even if you’re mad at them, or want to be alone, that you’ll _always_ comfort them if they have bad dream. Maybe this is their last-ditch effort to prove that you’re still the same old you. Well, they’re wrong! You’re cool. And cool people don’t let other people sleep in _their_ bed. Cool people deal with their own problems and don’t need help from anybody.

And that’s what you are.

You can sense them lingering by your bedside still, waiting for you to move over. They’re probably grinning ear to ear. _He’s gonna do it,_ they must be thinking, _he’s such a sucker._

“That’s too bad,” you throw back at them, folding your arms over your chest.

“…Can I…” they pause to take a deep breath, and you brace yourself for your final obstacle. The impossible question. The one they know you can’t say no to. “Can I please sleep in your bed tonight?”

You almost blurt out, ‘of course’ on instinct. Ooh, they’re going for the _big_ guns, too— they added a please and everything. Their form is admirable, certainly. _But_. You were ready for this. They never stood a chance.

“And have you hog the blanket? No thanks,” you joke and turn away from them. Discussion ended. Test passed.

You don’t realize they’ve left until you hear them climb back into their own bed. You wish you could have seen the look on their face.

 

Later, you hear a strange, ragged sort of breathing coming from their side of the room. It sounds almost like crying, but that can’t be right. Chara doesn’t cry. Chara _never_ cries. Maybe they’re cursing under their breath at how you saw through their plan, or something like that.

As you fall asleep, you get that feeling, again.

 

 

 

                When you wake, you roll over to see that Chara is still in their bed.

Your face screws up; they’re _always_ up before you. Usually, they’re the one who runs over and shakes you awake, refusing to let you sleep in. And— again, you suppose that’s considerate of them, especially because you _love_ to sleep in, but… it’s weird. It’s not like them. Awkwardly, you sit up and slide your legs off the side of your bed. “Chara,” you acknowledge, tossing your blanket to the side.

They don’t say anything. They don’t move. They don’t give any indication that they even heard you. They simply remain on their side, facing the wall.

“You alive?” you joke, nervously.

“Don’t you dare speak to me as though we are friends,” they hiss, still not looking at you.

You blink. “What?” you mutter, your guise crumbling apart at the edges.

With that, they shoot upright and throw themselves out of bed, standing up straight. Their eyes are simmering like searing coals, and you shrink back under their glare. “I know, now,” they tell you, voice shaking like they’re having trouble keeping it in one piece. “I know that you never cared about me. I’m not going to crawl back to you every time you get bored of me. So stop pretending that I can’t see you for who you really are.”

You blink again. “W-What?”

They close their eyes and take an uneven breath. “I _trusted_ you. Does that mean nothing to you? I thought you were my friend. I told you things about myself that I have never told anyone else. And you—” they choke up, and you notice, now, that there are tears running down their cheeks. “You gave up on me. You got _bored_ of me, and you threw me to the side like I was just your _toy!_ Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you doing, yesterday? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

You reel, horrified. “No! Chara, that’s not—“

“ _Shut up!”_ they shout through clenched teeth, and you obey. “I hate you, Asriel. Do you understand that? I _hate_ you,” they spit, fists clenched so tightly that their knuckles have gone snow-white.

The façade shatters. “I-I… I…” you sputter, at a loss.

“Does that hurt?” they taunt, bitter. “Does it hurt to think that someone cared about you, only to find that you were _nothing_ to them!?”

“N-No! I _do_ care about you!” you wail, feeling as though the world itself is being ripped in half. “I’m… I-I’m so sorry Chara, I just wanted you to think that… that I…”

“You wanted me to think _what?_ ”

“I just wanted you to think I was cool…!” you squeak and hug your arms to your chest. “I didn’t wanna hurt your feelings, I promise I didn’t mean it! Please don’t h-hate me!”

Slowly, so slowly, you see them soften; they unclench their hands, the anger drains from their face, their shoulders slump. “Oh,” they frailly add as relief washes over them. “Oh.”

You hear racing footsteps, and then you’re staggering back as they throw their arms around you. You lean into their shoulder and hug them back. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” they manage, squeezing you tighter. “So that’s all yesterday was about? You just wanted me to think you were… _cool_?”

You nod, snout bumping their shoulder. “Please don’t laugh at me. Or hate me. Oh, gosh, I’m such an idiot… I thought you were testing me to see if I was cool enough, I should’ve realized that I was just being mean to you…”

You hear an airy, faded laugh next to your ear. “You’re such a dork, I _already_ think you’re cool,” they say, and you frown.

“Then why do you always call me stuff like that?” you ask, pulling away. Their gaze falls to the floor.

“Because…” they start and stop, lost in concentration. “I don’t understand you. You’re really nice to me, and you’re always so happy, and I… I don’t get it. But that doesn’t mean I want you to push me away or act all bored and unhappy, those are things that I do, and I don’t like them. Does that make any sense?”

You shake your head. “Not really?”

“I like you the way you are,” they mumble, turning pink. “I don’t want a ‘cool’ friend, or some nicer version of me, I want _you_. Because you’re sort of cool in your own not-cool way, I guess.”

“Oh,” you poignantly reply. “Okay, then.”

They laugh again. You don’t get why, but you smile back anyways.

“Children,” your mother calls out from the kitchen, barely audible. “You are not going to waste the whole day in bed, are you?” You suppose you _are_ quite far behind schedule— you haven’t even changed out of your PJs, yet.

“Hey,” they start with a smile, and the whole room lights up. “Do you want to go play in the garden after breakfast?”

“Heck yeah I do!” you say, and it doesn’t bother you when they giggle at your enthusiasm. So maybe you’re not cool. But if you were, then they wouldn’t like you as much.

So you don’t really want to be cool, anymore. You’re fine just being you.


End file.
